


Ilsamirë's Hobbit Adventure

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [12]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hobbit Culture & Customs, Hobbits, Slice of Life, The Shire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-17 13:22:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11852466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: TA ~2320Ilsamirë disappeared from Elven Realms for more than a year, to live with... Hobbits?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Littlenori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlenori/gifts).



> This will probably be a slowly updated thing - Hobbits in those days were much the same as they were in Bilbo's time, but they still require a bit of research.
> 
> The Shire becomes a Thainship under Bucca of the Marish in 1979, five years after the destruction of the Kingdom of Arnor.  
> In 2340 Gorhendad Oldenbuck of the Marish claims Mastery of Buckland, a small area between the Brandywine River and the Old Forest that had not previously been inhabited by Hobbits. It effectively becomes a small independent nation. The Thainship passes to Isumbras I Took, whose descendants would hold the Thainship for the rest of recorded Shire history.

She had always been curious. The periannath had gone west, she knew, across the misty mountains, and further still. She had heard that they'd been granted land rights by the king of Arnor, of course, but she had not yet gone to see it for herself. She'd been in Mirkwood, made a right fool of herself pining for Legolas, and had decided to put as much space between herself and her disinterested One as possible. The idea of visiting the hobbits had struck her as brilliant, as it was a safe enough place to go that Nurtalëon didn't have to come along, which pleased her for several reasons.

 

One, he had fallen in love with her sort-of niece, who had returned the feelings instantly, which did not help the jealousy she felt after more than a thousand years of hoping had shattered her heart.

Two, she _really_ did not need to feel echoes of Nurtalëon bedding his new wife through their bond.

Three, she was seething with jealousy, and he'd feel that from her end, which was bound to make things strained, even in a relationship as old and familiar as theirs. No, distance was key, at least the next yén or so. She had no idea why physical distance impacted a bond that was spiritual in nature, but didn't really care to find out. The 'small glowing orb', which was how the bond appeared in her mind, 'shrunk' somehow, diminishing the emotional spill-over when either of them lost control. She supposed she was now feeling what Nurtalëon had felt when she had been going through her rather rebellious phase, learning all the kinds of bed-sport that Dwarrow enjoyed. In that way, she was happy to be a half-breed, at the time revelling in pleasure that elves only found in wedlock. She had since grown wiser, for though she had been fond of her bed-mates, and remembered them with happiness, she had not felt that kind of love for any of them. Physical pleasure, she knew, but feeling the rush of sharing her body and soul with her one love like Nurtalëon had inadvertently shown her... there was no comparison. She was happy for him and Nestades, but she did not think she could stand knowing what she would now never truly have. Leaving was the logical choice.

There were a lot of hills in this land, soft round shapes covered in grass, verdant green and somehow shielded by an aegis of peace she did not think its inhabitants knew they lived under. The Shire. She tasted the name, which felt peaceful too. Yes, she would like this land and it her, she thought, as she rode on, her horse stealing a nibble of greenery here and there. Yavannah's presence was felt here, deep in the roots of the land and spreading outwards. It was rooted in earth, and green things, and it was altogether hobbitish – that being the name the Shirelings used for their own people, Hobbits. She had written to the Thain from Imladris and contracted for a year as a smith - she did not think he had realised that she was a lady - and arranged for suitable living quarters by renting what the hobbits called a smial; a series of tunnel-connected rooms dug into the soft earth of the hill.

 

* * *

 

Before making it to her temporary abode in Michel Delving, however, she was to call upon the Master of the Tooks in Tuckborough, to introduce herself and pick up the keys for the smial and the forge. Turning left on the road from Bywater – Hobbits had very quaint names for their towns indeed – she followed the paths all the way to Tuckborough, which was a rather small collection of smials.

A few hours later, the colourfully painted round doors were in sight. Ilsamirë was rather surprised at the lack of Hobbits coming out to greet her, but rode on regardless, dismounting easily and tying Sirdal’s reins to a convenient fencepost. The spotted grey horse looked at her as though to ask whether she was serious about that – Sirdal wasn’t likely to run off after all, being an Elvish horse – but Ilsamirë simply laughed and stroked her mare’s soft nose. A huff of warm breath ruffled her mithril hair.

“And who might you be?” demanded a voice from the doorway that had opened barely enough to allow its owner to peer out suspiciously.

“I’m the new smith of Michel Delving,” Ilsamirë said, trying to give the hobbit a friendly smile. “I’m looking for the Master of the Tooks. Thain Gorhendad Oldbuck said he’d have the keys to the Michel Delving forge and the smial I rented.”

“Well, then,” the hobbit exclaimed, suddenly less wary. “That’s different, then. We don’t get many Big Folk around these parts, you see. You’ll be looking for Isumbras Took. I’ll see one of the faunts go off to fetch him from the spring planting. You can come in for a spot of afternoon tea while we wait.”

 

The tea was delicious, the Hobbit matron setting out four different kinds of cake to suit the blackcurrant tea.

“What’s your name then?” she asked, pouring the tea.

“You may call me Ilsamirë, madam…?”

“Yavannah’s apples,” the hobbit lady exclaimed. “I forgot to introduce myself! Peony is my name, Peony Brockens Took. Isumbras is my brother-in-law.”

“It is nice to meet you, Madam Took,” Ilsamirë nodded politely, accepting the offered cup of tea and the small plate of cake.

“Pish tosh,” Peony waved the words away. “Call me Peony, dear. It’ll be so nice to have a proper smith around the place again.”

 

* * *

 

The forge was in less than perfect condition. The smial, however, came with all necessary furniture – the bed was too short, but that was easily fixed – and she’d even been promised a weekly cleaning lady, paying a copper piece for cleaning and laundry.

Ilsamirë set to cleaning her new forge, repairing the holes in the roof and fixing the squeaky hinges.

 

* * *

 

The first day was dull. She had lit the forge and opened the doors, but when no Hobbits arrived looking for work to be done, Ilsamirë found herself slightly lost. At a whim, she began repairing the hinges on the doors to the forge, which were rusty. It didn’t take her long to craft new ones – etching a scrollwork design in the metal killed a bit more time, but hardly enough to call it a full day’s work. Bored, Ilsamirë left her forge, looking for somewhere to obtain food. If she remembered correctly, Hobbits were all about food, and though she had been supplied generously by Peony Took, her smial was pretty bare.

 

“Who is it, mama?” a small child asked, pulling his mother’s yellow dress and staring at Ilsamirë who was haggling for cherries with a fruit vendor.

“I’m the smith, little one,” she said calmly, accepting her bag of cherries from the vendor and turning to face the small figure, who seemed a little frightened to have caught her attention, hiding behind his mother’s full skirt. Ilsamirë laughed. “My name is Ilsamirë,” she smiled, holding out her hand towards the little boy. “What’s your name?”

“Mungo Boffins,” the small boy whispered, when his mother nudged him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mungo Boffins.”

“Are you a giant Hobbit?” Mungo asked cautiously. Ilsamirë burst out laughing.

“No, little one, I am an Elf,” she smiled. “I’m the new smith the Thain contracted for Michel Delving.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Madam Boffin showed up at the forge, needing an old shovel repaired. After her, it was an old gaffer asking if ‘Mistress Elf-Smith’ would be kind enough to come look at the shutters of his smial’s front entrance, a winter storm had bent the hinges.

Gradually, the Hobbits lost their mistrust of the ‘Big Folk’ smith – though quite a few still thought it scandalous to have a lady as a smith. No one could complain about the work, however, everyone had to agree.

 

* * *

 

 

Two months after her arrival, Ilsamirë found herself outside Peony’s front door once more, invited to afternoon tea.

The curly-haired matron opened the door, revealing a significant baby-bump that hadn’t been visible last time Ilsamirë visited.

“Ilsa!” Peony exclaimed, waving her into the room happily. “Everyone, this is Ilsamirë – you don’t mind that we call you Ilsa, dear, do you? – and this is my husband, Adalbert Took,” she waved at a dark-haired hobbit who rose in a half-bow, as though he wasn’t quite sure of the polite gestures the situation demanded. Peony breezed on, while Ilsamirë hid a slight smile at the whirlwind of introductions. “This is Barley Michel, the mayor’s son, and that’s my nephew Hamfast Brockens.” Both young Hobbits waved shyly. “This is Meriadoc Took, don’t let the smile fool you, he’s a rascal.” Meriadoc grinned cheekily, giving a sly wink in Ilsamirë’s direction.

“A real Elf-lady, I say,” Adalbert Took exclaimed, peering at Ilsamirë’s pointy ear in amazement. In truth, it was only a little pointier than the ears of the Hobbits, but the remark led to a round of loud compliments on their pointiness and delicate appearance. Ilsamirë tried not to laugh at the perfectly serious discussion of her ears – Meriadoc Took wondered if he might be able to see the tracery of veins through the skin if he held her toward the sun, like a fresh beech leaf – and busied herself with the delicious tea Peony was quick to pour, offering six different cakes and pastries this time.

“You will of course remain for the naming of our new faunt?” Adalbert asked, once the ear conversation had turned to the topic of morning glories in a twist of words Ilsamirë wasn’t sure she would be able to accurately pin – or pen – down.

“When is it due?” She asked, sipping from the small cup carefully. Though she was only a few feet taller than a Hobbit – for a moment she wondered what Legolas might look like sitting among these small creatures with his more-than-six-feet long body, but she waved the thought away quickly – Ilsamirë felt very large when confronted with their versions of cups, which were about a third of the size she was used to.

“Six months,” Peony chirped happily, rubbing her bump. “Adalbert’s mother swears it’ll be twin boys.” Grabbing Ilsamirë’s hand, Peony placed it gently against her flesh, a slight nudge coming from the small being inside.

“Twins yes, but a boy and a girl, I believe,” Ilsamirë replied thoughtfully. “Yes,” she moved her hand, “this is your daughter.” Moving her hand to the opposite side of Peony’s belly, Ilsamirë was unaware of the way the Hobbits stared at her. “This is your son. He is more restless. Your daughter likes to sleep.”

“Well then,” Meriadoc Took exclaimed, “how about a wager, Uncle?” Adalbert laughed.

“You’re on. Three jars of pickled cherries against a bag of that pipe-weed you grow on the elf?” he asked, spitting in his palm before holding it out to Meriadoc who copied him, clasping their hands to seal the bet.

“Madam Took has a long history of guessing right when it comes to pregnancies,” Peony whispered to Ilsamirë, whose hand was still lightly resting on her belly as she stared dumbly at the spectacle. “Now go wash off your hands, lads,” Peony ordered sternly. “It’s traditional, but I don’t want to be cleaning spit globs off the floor or the furniture next cleaning day,” she confided in an aside, when Meriadoc and Adalbert slunk from the sitting room to hoots of laughter from their fellow Hobbits. Ilsamirë laughed, picking up her small teacup and toasting the expectant mother with it.


	2. Bells

# Chapter 2

 

A few weeks later, an elderly Hobbit lady knocked on the door to the forge. Ilsamirë was busy making silver tableware for the mayor to give to his wife in honour of their upcoming anniversary, etching a different flower into the handle of every spoon. The mayor had kindly lent her a massive tome entitled ‘The Language of Florae’ which had the distinct advantage of being illuminated – something Ilsamirë did not know Hobbits were even aware existed – showing intricate drawing of all flora indigenous to the Shire itself and a fair few plants she had only seen in the far-flung corners of the earth. The author – probably not a Hobbit, she wryly thought, had clearly travelled extensively to compile this tome and a part of her wondered how it had ended up in the Shire of all places. The mayor had loftily informed her of the importance placed on the usage of flowers in everything from courtships to business arrangements among Hobbits, and had promised to have a copy made for her own keeping with the blooms and botanicals native to her temporary home. All in all, it was a large undertaking, but she had promised to faithfully render the small drawings in silver, the mayor even providing small chips of colourful rocks – none of which were valuable to Dwarven eyes, but then, the mayor’s wife was not a Dwarf – to use for inlay in the crafting of a silver teapot. Putting down the 14th spoon – the silver set would eventually consist of 27 servings, one for each of the mayor’s children, plus in-laws and offspring – Ilsamirë studied her guest. The grey-haired Hobbit looked deceptively frail in the way of tiny old ladies who have a firm hand on the reins of their families. An involuntary smile crossed Ilsamirë’s face, suddenly reminded of her own great-grandmother, Isavænn.

“May I help you?” she asked politely.

“I am Madam Took,” the Hobbit said, calmly authoritative. Ilsamirë realised that this must be Adalbert’s venerated mother.

“Felicitations on your expected grandchildren, ma’am,” the elleth replied, amused by actually remembering one of the rules of polite Hobbit interaction. Peony’s hour-long lecture had been headache inducing, but Madam Took smiled, so maybe it had not been a wasted afternoon altogether.

“Thank you.” Madam Took said nothing further however, studying the large amount of as-yet undecorated silver spoons. Ilsamirë wondered if she was meant to repeat her initial query, but decided to remain silent, studying the small Hobbit instead of returning to her work.

“Mayor Michel has always been a vain fool,” she said, breaking the silence. “But you cannot say that he does not love his Asphodel, for all that he is far too fond of displaying his wealth.” That was another peculiar thing about Hobbits, Ilsamirë had found. The more wealth they had, the subtler they had to display it, a view so opposite her Dwarven kin’s that the juxtaposition felt jarring.

“Mayor Michel lent me a book with drawings of the designs he wanted,” Ilsamirë heard herself say.

“Yes. My grandmother’s book, in fact, handed down her line since the last King held Fornost,” Madam took said. “At least you did not bring it into the forge,” she muttered, obviously scanning the spartan room for any sight of the large tome. Ilsamirë chuckled.

“Far too valuable an object to risk death by fire,” she pointed out. “I keep it in my smial and draw the day’s design onto a different page as I need it.” Three pages, actually; one to take to the forge, for reference, one to render in clear detail, magnified to be easier to measure and then shrink to fit onto a spoon’s handle, and one which she saved, planning to make a tome of the drawings and present it to Galadriel whenever she returned to Lothlórien. If she had time, Ilsamirë had thought, she might make another copy for Thranduil who might not read as much as he had when he lived in Doriath, but who still appreciated his large collection of books. Of course, the Silvans considered the small library simply an odd affectation of their first Queen’s, carried on by her son, but Ilsamirë knew that Nenglessel had imparted her love of learning to her son, and Thranduil had done his best to pass it on to Legolas – even if the youngest Prince of Mirkwood had been keener to learn the physical arts; weapons and dancing, than trying to find meaning in scratches on a page.

“A commendable trait,” Madam Took said, a note of warmth creeping into her voice. “I should like to order a pair of silver bells, to be installed in place of my door-knocker.” A simple mechanics project, really, but Ilsamirë pulled out a pen and a clean piece of paper anyway.

“Would you like to place the bells at different points in your smial, Madam Took?” she asked, “To let you hear them even when you are not near the door?”

“You can do that?” interested almost despite herself, Madam Took leaned in to look at the quickly sketched pulleys and gears that would enable a guest to ring the door-bell and have a bell further away copy the ringing.

“I’ll need to come around and do some measuring first, but yes, it’s an easy piece of engineering, Madam Took,” Ilsamirë promised, looking forward to the challenge. She’d need to devise a clever way of hiding the ropes, considering most smials had rounded and smooth ceilings made of soil that had been painted over with some colour – usually white – but few actual crossbeams. Running wires through the soil wouldn’t work, but perhaps one could make a decorative border along the separation of wall and ceiling and run it along that… Her mind spinning with ideas, Ilsamirë’s swift fingers filled the page quickly with partial sketches.

“Mersday next?” Madam Took asked. “Make plans to stay a day or three, I’m sure there are others who would wish to make use of your skills while you visit Tuckborough.”

“Mersday next, Madam Took, I’ll be there,” Ilsamirë agreed with a nod. Madam Took – Ilsamirë wondered if she ought to have asked the Took-Lady’s first name, but she couldn’t remember Peony mentioning that topic as part of her training – left as unobtrusively as she had entered. Ilsamirë returned to work on the spoons.

 

Tuckborough was some ways away from Michel Delving, at least for a Hobbit walking, but Ilsamirë’s elven horse was happy to stretch her legs and Sirdal’s swift grace soon brought the scattering of doorways that concealed the smials known as Tuckborough into view.

“There you are,” Peony called, laughing when she spotted the grey mare and her rider. The plump hobbitess was painting a flower pot in her front garden – the faunts prevented her from doing much of her customary weeding and gardening already – and waved at Ilsamirë.

“Expecting me?” Ilsamirë asked, waving back.

“Well, Layla hasn’t stopped talking about those bells you’ve made for her,” Peony chuckled. “I shouldn’t be surprised if half the farthing shows up to see them when they are installed. Speaking of work, if you’ve the time after calling on Madam Took, would you come have a look at the bookcases? One of them fell down the other day, and I’d rather they be safe when the faunts beginning running around.”

“Of course. I’ve been invited to spend a few days at the Took’s. Madam Took said there’d be more than one Took needing work done.” Ilsamirë replied, smiling at the expectant mother who was rubbing her still-small belly with the slightly dreamy look common in pregnant ladies when the babe moved. Waving farewell to Peony, whose painted marigolds were just as beautiful as the flowers blooming in her little garden, Ilsamirë turned Sirdal down the road, whispering fondly to the horse which snorted, moving leisurely along and nipping at a hedge here and there.

 

It was late morning when Ilsamirë dismounted outside the largest of the smials in Tuckborough, rubbing Sirdal’s flank before the knocked on the door.

“Goodness!” Isumbras Took – the resemblance to his brother Adalbert was quite pronounced, which was why Ilsamirë felt confident in her assumption of his name – gasped, opening the door and staring up at the calmly smiling elleth; at least two feet taller than him.

“I’m Ilsamirë, the smith of Michel Delving. I’ve an appointment with Madam Took,” Ilsamirë said gently, “have you a place I could send my horse for grazing?”

Distracted by an actual task, Isumbras scratched his neck in thought. “Well, turn it loose up top and come in for elevenses, then we’ll take it down to the paddock before luncheon?” he asked. Ilsamirë smiled, nodding her thanks.

“ _Sirdal,_ ” she spoke softly. The mare’s ears pricked at the sound of her name. “ _Auta ambanenna. Tuluvan lenna **[1]**._ ” The spotted grey horse whinnied lightly before stepping daintily out of sight.

“Has the smith arrived yet, Isumbras?!” Madam Took called from somewhere inside the smial, startling her son who had been gaping after the horse. His mother’s voice broke through his reverie, and Isumbras stepped away from the door, slightly flustered. Elven horses understood their masters to an extent, and the meaning of the Quenya she spoke would have been understood by most animals, even if they wouldn’t have grasped the true words. Ilsamirë smiled kindly before ducking through the low doorway. The smial itself wasn’t much too low for her, at least, which was a relief. In her own temporary home, Ilsamirë had to duck her neck to stand under the ceiling, and she often chose to take her meals outside and sleep under the stars instead.

“This way,” Isumbras said, regaining his equilibrium and showing Ilsamirë through the roomy tunnels. Noting the way the smial was constructed, Ilsamirë thought her initial plan might work. This smial seemed to have been constructed with lintel beams running along the tunnel walls and across the ‘doorways’ where rooms opened up like leaves on the branch of the main tunnel. She could certainly run a system of wires along the top of the beams, Ilsamirë thought, needing only to figure out where to place the bells she had cast a few days before. “Miss Ilsa Elf-Smith here to see you, mother,” Isumbras introduced clearly. Ilsamirë had to bite back a wistful smile at hearing her father’s old title bestowed so casually on her by a Hobbit of all things.

The finely-combed grey curls of Madam Took’s head rose slowly as she lifted her face from staring at the tea service laid out on the table. “Thank you, Isumbras. Do serve the tea, there’s a good lad,” Madam Took smiled kindly at her son, who made no move to protest her word choice, no matter that he was obviously a fully-grown adult by hobbit standards, and silently moved to take the kettle from the fire. “Miss Ilsa! Welcome to Tuckborough and our home!” Madam Took enthused, taking Ilsamirë’s hand and shaking it kindly. Diligently steering her towards a seat on a bench only slightly too short, Madam Took took her own place in the chair opposite, leaving the seat at the head of the table for Isumbras, even if it was abundantly clear who was running the clan in everyone’s mind. Isumbras poured the tea, and the small – for a Hobbit – meal passed in polite conversation and compliments on the food. Ilsamirë recognised Peony’s hand in the dainty teacakes the friendly hobbitess had also served the last time Ilsamirë had visited her and Adalbert.

 

Spreading out the drawings for the pulley and gears she had made for the doorbell, Ilsamirë set to assembling it swiftly. Demonstrating how it worked – to Madam Took’s great joy and not-at-all well-concealed glee at having something no one else did – drew a few comments even from the almost-silent Isumbras, who had none of his nephew’s gregarious nature. Disassembling the mechanism and the bell pull, Ilsamirë pulled out her tools to drill a hole through the wall by the round door. Attaching the fixture for one bell to the outside, she ran a small line though the hole and a small spring.

Running the wire for the second bell, which Madam Took had decided to put in the hallway between the kitchen and the sitting room, took longer than expected, simply because of the amount of questions needing answered. Ilsamirë smiled lightly, feeling like she was surrounded by curious children, not an aged Hobbit-matron and her adult son. When Isumbras’ wife, Lily, and their three faunts came through the door in late afternoon, back from a visit to her sister’s, the questions began anew. Another delay was caused by the constant appearance of food – Ilsamirë might have spent a total of three months in the Shire and eaten a fair few meals with the Hobbits since arriving, but she was in no way used to the seven meals a day Hobbits seemingly favoured. At first, she had wondered how they ever got anything done, when it seemed most of their time was taken up by eating or coking, but to her amusement it seemed that most tasks in the Shire involved food somehow, whether it be farming or pottery. Her own pantry had been filled with generous payments of preserves and other kinds of food the Hobbits had traded instead of coin.

“Well,” Ilsamirë straightened, looking at the bell she had just hung from its spring-loaded hook. “Who wants to ring the bell?” A clamour broke out, as every faunt in the smial raced Isumbras towards the door, prompting a fond laugh from their grandmother, who had wisely stepped aside for the stampeding horde. In the kitchen, Lily looked up with a soft smile, tossing her red curls out of her face and shaking her head at the antics of her husband and children.

“Oh…” Madam Took gasped, when the bell above her head began bouncing on its ornate hook, the silver tinkle loud and clear. “I didn’t actually think it’d work,” she admitted in an undertone at Lily. Ilsamirë hid her laugh, overhearing the low words only due to her elven ears. The bell kept hopping for a good long while, as every faunt had a go at the pull.

“Hopefully they’ll not think to pull it for laughs,” Lily Took murmured, but she grinned when she said it.

“Thank you, Miss Ilsa,” Madam Took bowed her head respectfully.

“You’re welcome, ma’am,” Ilsamirë returned the gesture politely.

“Call me Layla.” The Hobbit-lady offered.

“Ilsamirë Durinul, would be my name in your tongue, Layla Took,” Ilsamirë replied. She had considered inventing a family name – seemingly, Hobbits named themselves as ‘Person X of Clan Y’ rather than the more familiar ‘daughter of someone’ – but Durin was as good a family name as any Elven word she might have picked to describe her kin.

 “I’ve invited Miss Durinul to stay for a few days, so we should expect an influx of relatives seeking to purchase her skills while she’s here.” Turning to her good-daughter, Layla Took gave orders with the air of a general accustomed to being obeyed without question. Ilsamirë hid a light smile at the thought.

 

 

 

[1] River-foot, go to the hillside. I will come to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a third chapter, but honestly it was shite, so I've deleted it again.


End file.
